


Some Dreams Never Do Come True

by LoosenYourCorset



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Smut, fall out boy - Freeform, it's not exactly smut but there's a mention of it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-05
Updated: 2016-09-05
Packaged: 2018-08-13 04:23:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7962286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoosenYourCorset/pseuds/LoosenYourCorset
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written as a journal entry by Patrick, 10 years in the future in order to make the timeline work. Title taken from the song 'Seeing Stars' by Børns.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Some Dreams Never Do Come True

_Journal Entry #598 - November 17th, 2026_

 

It's not often that I sit down to write in this thing. In fact I rarely ever do it anymore. Life gets so busy, I find it hard to make time to just sit and write about what I'm thinking or how I'm feeling.

Last night I had that dream again; him and I walking across one of the city's bridges. In the dream it feels like we've been doing that for hours, but the dream only lasts about a minute or so in total. At least, what I can remember of it. He reaches out for me, tries to take my hand. Before our fingers touch I wake up. I always wake up.

It's been ten years today. The idea that I haven't seen his face up close in that long makes my chest ache with longing. I miss him. I never wrote about his death, never talked about it. I attended the funeral and then moved on, pushing it from my mind like windshield wipers push aside rain. But with this two decade mark, I feel like it's time. I'll start from the beginning.

His name was...is Peter. Mostly everyone just called him Pete, but I liked to call him Peter sometimes just because he hated it. I could say anything, followed by me referencing him as Peter, and his face would crinkle up. His nose would twitch, and he'd give me a look as if I was his mortal enemy for just that moment. I loved it. Pete had this lovely, soft tan skin. He looked best in the light of the sun as it went down, dipping under the horizon in the evening. The orangeness of it just made him all the more prettier in my opinion, and god was he pretty. His hazel brown eyes could pierce me, they could see right through me even. If I was lying, he knew. If I was upset, he knew. I could never keep anything from him even if I'd wanted to. He was taller than me only by a couple of inches. People liked to joke that we were the shortest couple ever, and maybe among our friends we were. His black hair was often curly after a shower, which he hated and I loved. He straightened it all the time no matter how much I'd ask him to leave it be. 

There was nothing that Pete couldn't make fun, if I remember correctly. Even things I hated, like cleaning up after dinner or putting a new bed sheet onto the bed. He didn't seem to hate anything. 

We would take trips a few times a year to New York. Chicago was great, but we needed to escape sometimes even if it was only for a weekend. We would go to Coney Island and he'd buy a hot dog for himself, a cone of cotton candy for me. We'd normally eat them while leaning over the railing and watching seagulls before heading to the teacups to get dizzy. If we were lucky, we didn't barf afterward. 

Sometimes I can feel him, physically. It's a phantom feeling, like when you think you hear your phone vibrate and when you check it, there aren't actually any new notifications. It's exactly like that. I can be putting away dishes in my kitchen, or locking my front door before bedtime, and I'll feel what must be a hand brush across my arm or the back of my neck. I _know_ it's him, because my wife is never around when it happens. My two daughters aren't, either. It has to be him. Other times when I can feel him, it's just a memory. The way his fingertips would dance across my back whenever we found ourselves at a beach together, or the way he would rest his hand on my leg when were in the car. It's always so vivid that it feels like I saw him only yesterday. 

I can smell him too, though. Literally and memory-wise. One of the only things I have left of him is kept in a box under my bed. A bottle of half-used Old Spice cologne rests in there, along with a few records his mother wanted me to have, and the old dog collar for Mimsy, the dog we shared and the dog I gave to his sister after he...passed on. I would have kept her, but she kept wandering around the house at night and looking for him. I also considered using the cologne just to smell like him, but I couldn't bring myself to do so. I placed it in the box with the records years ago and haven't touched it since. I can also smell him at Thanksgiving, when we're eating pumpkin pie. It was his favorite. Or when I go to old bookstores, because he always loved the smell of old books. 

There's a scrapbook I keep in the attic. I can't look at it for fear of getting upset. It contains so many pictures of us, of my life with him. Pictures of us in New York, visiting expensive shops we couldn't really afford. He liked to play a game in jewelry stores, where we'd rack up so much money in diamonds and jewels and then leave with the promise that we'd be back the next day to pick them up; we never did. My favorite picture is one of him smiling while getting a tattoo of my name on his upper back. I thought it was cheesy. "What if we break up?" I had laughed, and he just shook his head. "I'll never leave you," came his response, and then a chuckle of his own. Hearing him laugh was like hearing angels sing. 

The extensive amount of tattoos he'd collected over the years we were together were like tiny works of art. Sometimes, after making love, I'd discover one or two little ones that I hadn't recalled seeing before. I could slide my fingers over his skin and it would be just like touching an inked-up cloud. He was amazing in bed. He'd introduce a new move and I'd become oh so shy all of a sudden, but he made trying new things so easy on me. My favorite position was missionary, easily. I could watch him and he could watch me, but I loved it so much because of the kissing; Pete was an incredible kisser. He had lips as smooth as butter, and I have to focus really hard sometimes on _not_ remembering those. The way he would lay between my legs made me smile, seeing the contrast of his warm, tan skin against my own pale, white thighs. I couldn't deem anything about him to be not beautiful. 

He once said that he dreamed me up. I'd always say that _he_ was _my_ dream. We would go back and forth on which one of us was the other's dream, eventually settling on neither and ending the play-fight with a kiss. Tupac once said that reality is wrong, dreams are for real. 

My dream is out there somewhere. Maybe he's an angel now, or maybe he became the falling star I wish on every once in a while. Don't get me wrong - I love my wife and my children, but they were things I never expected. I also never expected my dream to end so suddenly and for Pete to be taken away from me by a careless drunk driver in a giant truck. Dreams can change, but everybody has a dream that they would consider to be the best one they ever had. 

Pete was my best dream. 

Maybe, just maybe, wherever he is, he's still dreaming too. And maybe one day we'll get to fight about who had more dreams of the other while we were apart. 

If I don't stop now, I'll keep writing forever. I think I'll go take a nap, now. 

Signed, 

_Patrick_.

**Author's Note:**

> It's not my usual schtick, I'll admit. I hope you enjoyed it anyway.


End file.
